


In the Silence Your Blood Sings

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Hallowe'en, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He really hadn't had a choice once John found out. And after John offered there was no going back. Hallowe'en fic for SassyVeeDub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Silence Your Blood Sings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassyVeeDub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyVeeDub/gifts).



> This one is for SassyVeeDub, who likes things a little darker:D – It still is a romance of sorts because that seems to be what I write:D
> 
> As usual I do not own, but if I did John and Sherlock would be…well you’ll see:)

The stillness in the flat was profound, heavy and absolute.

 

It was the infinite black of the middle of the night. The sounds of the city were muted and distant. There was a hint of the soft glimmer of the street lamps trying to draw back the edge of the curtains but the way the heavy fabric hung denied anything more than a token entrance.

 

This is the way he preferred it.

 

He wanted to sit here, in the gloom, in the immeasurable quiet.

 

It was a small portion of comfort to be enfolded in the night like a blanket or a shroud.

 

Sprawled in his chair, he let his head fall back, arms over the sides. A streak of mud trailed up his trouser leg. It was ground into his knees, from where he had collapsed. It would never come out, and the trousers were ruined. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered. There was more mud under his usually immaculate nails and minuscule traces of blood on the back of his hands. Drops had splattered other places as well, dried a rusty brown.

 

His eyes weren’t closed. If you had been there, in the flat, you would have perhaps wondered at the faint gleam, the eldritch radiance, but you might have erroneously dismissed it as a trick of the poor illumination.

 

Even in the pale light from the street, the blood was noticeable around the edges of his mouth, a small streak he’d missed on his chin. He could smell it there, but he couldn’t be bothered to lick it, to taste it. He’d already had more than his fill. He had nearly drained a warm, living body, emptied it until it was a shell, just the wrapping of the man it had contained.

 

And after he had realized what he had done, after it had struck him, what had happened, even though it had been entirely necessary, it made him ill to think of it.

 

He wished he had a cigarette. He’d like nothing better than to draw the smoke through his lips and down into his lungs, feel the rush of nicotine as it hit.

 

But it had been decades since he’d smoked.

 

He had other, darker cravings now. He had taken care of those cravings quite efficiently, with help of course.

 

John had said the words, had asked the question, had broken the taboo.

 

He had apparently always known, almost since the beginning.

 

Sherlock could fool him about some things but apparently not that. Not a doctor, especially one as practical as John.

 

After that, there was no going back. Once he knew, he was forfeited.

 

Shock drenched him as he realized what this meant and for the first time in a very long time he didn’t know what to do. If he did nothing and Mycroft found out, well, that would be the end of John Watson. And Mycroft always found out.

 

He explained to John what had to happen. He tried to be his usual detached, clinical self, but it wasn’t working. John had grown quiet, his lips pursed together, as he absorbed the news and Sherlock had felt the beginning stages of panic settling in when John once again surprised him as no one else ever had.

 

He offered, wordlessly.

 

John had looked at him, thinned his lips, pulled out the pocketknife he always carried and had carefully cut his wrist. Fearlessly. He then let the knife drop, discarded, to the floor.

 

Blood trickled out and ran down across his wrist and began to drip on the floor. He’d held it out as if to say _Take, drink, eat. This is my blood. This is my body._

 

Sherlock tried to reject it, tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t, and it was the only solution. With a sound that was half groan and mostly animalistic he launched himself at his only friend.

 

And he latched on.

 

Even though the blood lust was rising in him, he was still able to control his baser instincts, he'd had years of practice. He bit down carefully trying not to mar the skin, and he almost missed the soft gasp from John, almost. He glanced up and watched John’s face. The other man looked down at him, so full of trust, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes, his eyes were dark pools of wonder.

 

Lust welled up in them, and his skin flushed. It wouldn’t stay that rosy for long. He could hear his soldier’s heart beat more rapidly, but Sherlock could not taste fear. He continued to hold John’s gaze, and he watched as his eyes grew black and knowing, no doubts in them and the comprehension of where this would lead, shone out like the dawn Sherlock hadn’t seen in so long.

 

The first tang of John’s blood was like nothing he’d ever tasted. His taste, his flavour wasn’t like any other person he had taken and from whom he'd fed. They had been ignorant, hadn’t ever realized, hadn’t known they were cattle. It certainly wasn’t like when he'd first been turned, and he’d used the homeless and those who would not be missed. It wasn’t even like the ones Mycroft had sometimes provided in the early days for fun, to practice the hunt before they became wary and wise. Their blood had always satisfied, but the taste had been full of terror or anger.

 

This pledge was freely given. It was rich, and it tasted like caramel and light. It tasted of spices and heat. It tasted heartfelt and vibrant, of vitality and control. He could taste John’s patience, his acceptance of what was happening between them and most of all he could taste how much John had hidden from him. He could taste his deep abiding love.

 

John fell to his knees and ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair. The touch woke something in Sherlock, and he had the presence of mind to stop long enough so that he carefully took John’s knife from where it had fallen to the ground and he nicked his wrist and held it out to John, his pledge, his bond. He knew he couldn’t stop this, whatever this was between them, so it was the least he could offer. Acceptance swept through John’s eyes and then love. Love was there in equal measure. “I will come back. I would never leave you,” he promised solemnly and bent down and carefully, tenderly kissed Sherlock’s wrist and swept up the pooling blood with his tongue. He closed his eyes momentarily, and a slightly puzzled frown adorned his face. Sherlock reached out and carefully ran a thumb over the wrinkled brow and smoothed it out. John opened his eyes wide and then he laughed, a glorious laugh full of joy, not bitterness. He parted the buttons of his shirt and titled his head.

 

Sherlock growled at him when he realized what John was giving. He took John’s face in both hands and looked at him. John nodded slightly, swallowed heavily, his throat working.

 

He leaned forward and brushed his lips over the spot in John’s neck, the one place where his blood sang to him, even when he wasn’t craving, he could hear it, in the silence that grew between them. There were no words for what was happening. He could smell the tantalizing odour just under John’s fragrant skin. He savoured carefully with his tongue, lapped catlike, at the molecules shed there, transferring flavour. With another soft sound, he sank his teeth. John’s gasp was loud and a shudder ran through his frame. And then he pulled Sherlock closer as if trying to merge the two of them and wrapped his other arm around him, fingers locked and twisted in his curls. He pressed Sherlock’s head hard into the side of his neck.

 

Sherlock clung to John, could feel every tremble, every shake, could hear John panting and the soft moans coming from him. He wasn’t moaning in fear; he was moaning in desire.

 

And it was glorious and incredibly intoxicating, and Sherlock wanted all of John, wanted his sinew and bones, wanted his muscle tissue and his skin.

 

Wanted his blood.

 

He took it. He took it as John’s shudders became weaker, until he could hear the sound of his heart slow and finally, tenderly, still.

 

Sherlock stopped, stopped just this side of death.

 

He held John’s body close to himself, and he wept tears of John’s blood.

 

Held him until it was almost too late and then he picked up the body, so much lighter now, seemingly so much reduced and he'd taken him down the stairs and out behind the building where Mrs. Hudson had a small garden.

 

He dug the grave for his fallen friend, his newfound last minute mate.

 

Dug it deep enough, but not too deep. Packed the ground hard enough, but not too hard.

 

As he looked at the soft earth, he found he could not stand any longer, and he was on his knees in the wet soil, praying to a nameless god in whom he did not believe.

 

He said one word, “Please.”

 

Leaving the shovel where it had fallen, he dragged himself back to the flat.

 

That is where Mrs. Hudson found him. She flicked on the lamp as she entered.

 

“Sherlock, the mess you’ve made. Tracking in mud all up the stairs. And look at the state of you trousers.”

 

She paused and came closer. She stopped when she was in arms reach and bent over and gently pulled his chin to tilt it up to look at him. Her eyes narrowed.

 

She tutted and went to the bathroom. She returned with a wet flannel and carefully wiped his face, the last traces of John’s blood disappearing under the cloth, removed by her ministrations.

 

“What have you done now? You aren’t usually this untidy. Seems a shame that it had to be Dr. Watson. Such a nice man. He was so good for you, too.” She paused and looked at him shrewdly. “But maybe that’s why. You have been alone for far too long.” Then she nodded decisively and left to rinse out the cloth. He could hear her as she continued to speak from the bathroom. “I hope you didn’t bury him too deeply, not like that last one. He never did turn up again.”

 

She came back and stood in front of his chair, hands on hips.

 

“I will go and pack. Let me know when it is safe to come home. You’ll need me, either way. I’m here to take care of you, you know.” She didn’t expect him to answer her.

 

As she left, she called back over her shoulder. “I’ll be at my sister’s. Now don’t sulk. I’m sure it will all be as right as rain.”

 

She was gone, and Sherlock was left with his dark and brooding thoughts. They ran around and around in his head, trapped in a warren of doubt and fear.

 

He was sure he had been careful.

 

He was sure he’d left enough and had given enough.

 

If John were strong enough, he could break free. Struggle was important, was necessary.

 

Sherlock knew no one else who was as resilient as John.

 

He waited, in the chair, for three days and three nights when he finally heard the sound of the door to Mrs. Hudson’s garden close, followed by the door to her flat. Next came the echo of a tired tread on the stairs. He closed his eyes and a small smile graced his lips for the first time since this had begun.

 

He opened them when he heard the door to the flat open.

 

There was John, newborn, wonderful, amazing, clever, beautiful John; John, who had promised he would never leave him.

 

And now he never would.


End file.
